


Cactus

by Mariquita



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, M/M, Maybe even psychotic, PWP, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tyrell is sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9270848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mariquita/pseuds/Mariquita
Summary: “Oh, so we’re doing this now.” He meant to say this flippantly, but he couldn’t properly disguise the excitement in his voice.





	

Tyrell Wellick was born to do great things. At least that was what his father said in a moment of clarity just before the cancer took him completely. It was what Joanna had kept repeating, too, as they made their way across the Atlantic to a tiny but livable apartment in a prominent part of New York. So he soldiered on, stumbling if not climbing all the way up the corporate ladder. So he lied through his teeth, so he fucked the right people and sucked the right dicks. But of course, as these stories go, it’s not enough. It’s never enough. And there is absolutely nothing great about his situation right now.

He feels Elliot buck once, twice and he is coming in his mouth. He can feel the warm, sticky liquid coating the back of his throat and he tries not to gag. He hasn’t done this in a while. It used to be that he’d just spit it out, but there’s something about the way Elliot is arranged, already naked, done in and boneless in his bed, that makes Tyrell swallow hard. He even hooks his thumb to the side of his mouth to scoop at some of the stickiness that had escaped and swallows that too. God, what will Joanna say if she sees him now?

He sits up and reaches out to tap Elliot’s cheek lightly. He’s out like a light. Jesus. For all his brusqueness and arrogant talk about saving the world, he’s quite a lightweight in bed. This doesn’t surprise Tyrell, as he’s well aware of Elliot’s eating habits (or lack thereof.) He brushes his thumb at a dangerously protruding hipbone and makes a mental note to force-feed him if that’s what it takes just so they can finish the task. Not _this_ task. But the other one, the larger, ever-present one that never fails to give him goose bumps.

Tyrell Wellick gets what he wants, when and how he wants it because he has the patience of an eight year old, and because he thinks the world owes him something. There are items, like his executive-level position over at E-Corp, that took longer to get than he was used to. They were the worst years of his life. And Joanna—faithful, indomitable, Joanna—came home one evening with the solution, at least for that time: velvet ropes, a whip, a gag.

Right now, all Tyrell wants is release.

He moves over Elliot and shoves his thighs apart. He realizes he likes him more this way—quiet, vulnerable, and open. It feels wrong. It most probably is but it doesn’t stop him from sliding two spit-slicked fingers inside Elliot to work him open. He keeps a close eye on his face for any sign that he is feeling this, but there’s nothing. Ignorance is bliss. That may be so, but Tyrell thinks that he should be awake to enjoy this. He starts working another finger inside and as if on cue, Elliot’s eyes start to flutter open.

“Welcome back,” Tyrell says, plainly, conversationally, as if he doesn’t have his fingers shoved inside him.

He watches as Elliot’s brain goes online and he registers what’s going on. If his enthusiasm twenty minutes ago is anything to go by, he should be embracing Tyrell right about now, and not screaming his lungs out at Tyrell to “get the fuck off.” Tyrell looks at him incredulously but does what he’s told. Slowly, he sits on his heels as Elliot scurries to a corner of the bed and folds into himself.

“What the fuck are you doing,” he says this in a reedy voice as if he’s about to cry.

Tyrell scoffs. “You do know that you were the one who started this, right?” It’s true. They’ve been working in overdrive when Tyrell stretched and let out a big yawn. “Tired,” Elliot had asked—leered suggestively, more like—and he was leaning in and they were making out and Elliot was making pleasant little sounds in the back of his throat that almost fried Tyrell’s brain into a crisp.

“What are you talking about?” Elliot half-yells.

Tyrell clicks his tongue disapprovingly like he has no time for this. He starts crawling towards Elliot not unlike how a lion would towards his prey. The shock of having his face whipped to the side registers first, and then he feels the pain growing across his face. He’s not quite sure whether Elliot had slugged him or slapped him. Maybe it’s not important. He moves his jaw as if testing whether it is still in place and he trains his eyes over to Elliot.

“Oh, so we’re doing this now,” he asks. He meant to say this flippantly, but he couldn’t properly disguise the excitement in his voice.

It doesn’t even take the least bit of effort to pin Elliot down, to grab both his wrists in one tight grip, and loop his discarded tie around them. Joanna loved it when Tyrell would go off-script, when she didn’t have to guide him every step of the way. But those moments were few and far in between. Maybe he was too afraid of hitting her a bit too hard, or breaking her neck if he went any further. But Elliot is not Joanna. There’s nothing about his haircut, his choice of wardrobe, or the zero fucks he gives that reads _dainty_. He got this. He can handle this.

Elliot is extraordinarily quiet and Tyrell is almost certain that he has fallen back to sleep. But if the tautness of his body is anything to read by, Elliot is still wide awake, although he has his eyes screwed tight as if he’s willing all of this to go away. Tyrell hovers over Elliot and it strikes him odd. This Elliot almost reminds him of the nervous “just-a-tech” Elliot he met at Allsafe. They both know that that smokescreen has long been blown wide-open. There’s no “just-a-tech” Elliot, only this tactless and over-bearing revolutionary that just may or may not save the whole world.

“It’s all right; you’re fine,” Tyrell finds himself whispering despite himself and he’s leaning in to latch his mouth to his. He hasn’t meant it to feel as chaste, but he likes this. He likes feeling him against his lips, as if by doing so he can explain this aberration that is him, his mind. It takes a while, but Elliot is soon kissing him back, lightly, like he’s testing the waters. Tyrell considers this a go-ahead, so he starts licking his way in. Casually at first, as if it’s just an accident, but growing more and more persistent. His breathing starts getting jagged as he starts sliding his tongue in completely, licking everywhere—the back of Elliot’s teeth, the roof of his mouth, the underside of his tongue.

The bite comes unexpectedly and too painfully when Tyrell is entirely lost in the kiss. He howls as he detaches himself and he tastes copper in his mouth. He retaliates, of course, anger boiling over, and hits Elliot across the face, once, twice, thrice even. He remembers doing this to Joanna, and Joanna telling him to hit harder. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He’s about to hit Elliot a fourth time when he stops. There’s blood in his mouth, as well.

“Don’t make me hurt you any more,” he rasps, and he’s sticking his fingers in Elliot’s mouth.

“Suck,” an imperative. He’s losing it. “Suck! Goddammit!”

And Elliot begins sucking like he wants this, like he’s made for this. Not long after that, Tyrell is reaching down between them. Elliot’s spit and blood is on his hand, and on his cock as well. He pumps himself just a couple of times and he’s guiding the tip of his cock, trying to find that tight ring of muscles. He catches it and presses in, gently as if he hasn’t just been hitting him a while ago. He can feel Elliot straining against the makeshift bonds as he continues the slide in. He stills only when there’s nowhere left to go. He can feel Elliot pulsing around his cock and its far too much. He hitches Elliot’s leg up, bends it back against his chest and he pulls all the way out.

“Yeah, there you go—That felt good, right?” he’s whispering in Elliot’s ear in a voice that hardly registers as his own.

He does it all over again, the slip in and out definitely easier this time. There’s a purple bruise already forming on the side of Elliot’s mouth. Tyrell thinks its beautiful as he enters him again. He does this several more times and everytime he fucks in Tyrell imagines that it's the first moment of penetration. He wonders briefly about the possibility of Elliot having had any other partner, and a storm of jealousy suddenly overrides him.

His cock is leaking when he arranges Elliot once more, nudging his legs open to accommodate him. He lines his cock to his hole again and drives in, this time with no plans of disengaging until they're both over the edge. He starts a fast and brutal pace, one that Joanna might enjoy, only harder. Because Elliot can take it, despite his pleas for Tyrell to stop. He can take it.

He finds Elliot's prostrate soon enough and works at it relentlessly. Soon, Elliot starts meeting his thrusts, to Tyrell’s surprise. But he’s only able to do this a few times before his hips start faltering. And he’s clenching around Tyrell and he’s spilling in that space between their stomachs. Tyrell fucks him throughout his orgasm with no signs of slowing down.

Tyrell leans in and kisses him again and Elliot kisses him back this time, slowly but resolutely, as if he means it. Tyrell tastes the blood in his mouth and it tastes like spring. He’s close, he knows, and he’s fucking Elliot’s mouth with his tongue as unforgivingly as he’s thrusting into him.

\---

He wakes with a start. Somebody is kicking him. It takes a while before he gets his bearing. A brick wall, a mattress on the floor, a computer running.

“Hey,” somebody is saying. “Hey asshole.”

He turns to look to his side and Elliot is right there seething.

“Cut me loose already,” he is saying, or shouting.

So Tyrell sits up and starts untying the knot while Elliot glares up at him.

"You're a real piece of work, aren't you," he says as he checks the slight bruising around his wrists.

Tyrell notes that they’re both naked. And then he remembers. The images are like a jolt to his brain. He looks down and there’s a nasty bruise on the side of Elliot’s face, and traces of come and blood on his stomach and the inside of his thighs.

He feels like he should say sorry, but Elliot is already on his feet, wiping himself with Tyrell's dress shirt. He starts putting his clothes back on, keeping his back to Tyrell the whole time.

“You got what you wanted, right?” Elliot is saying. "Now let's get back to work."

Tyrell notices a slight limp as he heads back to the station. He can already hear Elliot tapping away at his keyboard.

“Sorry,” Tyrell finally says, after what seems like an eternity, and it comes out just slightly above a whisper.

The typing stops. Elliot huffs, and he turns partially towards Tyrell, that bruised side of his face visible in the semi-dark.

“It’s not me you should be saying sorry to,” he says densely, as if he's had to explain this so many times before. He looks at Tyrell squarely in the eye, "It's that other guy."

And Tyrell feels his blood run cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Well... you know. 
> 
> *shrugs, hides*
> 
> \---
> 
> Title may or may not have come from a song about a dress.


End file.
